


Let's Kiss and Make Up

by LowerEastSide



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, H/D Tropes Exchange Fest 2019, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowerEastSide/pseuds/LowerEastSide
Summary: Harry isn't sure what Draco wanted. He knows what Dracodidn'twant, and three months after the door slammed behind him, it still stings.





	Let's Kiss and Make Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vipereyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/gifts).

> Written for the Trope "Love Hurts" for the 2019 H/D Tropes Exchange Fest. 
> 
> Dear vipereyed, it was a pleasure to write this for you! I saw ‘hookups turned relationships’ in your likes and ran with that… what if Draco and Harry tried to make a friends with benefits situation into something real, and failed at it? 
> 
> Thanks to Buildyourwalls for looking over my shoulder as I wrote, and ElleGray for the second pair of eyes! And a BIG thank you to the mods for their patience with me and for running this fest.
> 
> Title from The Field Mice “Let’s Kiss and Make Up”... “Without beforehand thinking, sometimes I say things... I do not mean one word of what I say.”

~~~

Washing up just isn't the same without him. 

The spells are easy enough — Harry learned them from Molly that first summer living on his own. Soap, rinse, dry. The dishes hover, waiting their turn before each step, then stack themselves in a neat pile on the counter. But Harry’s magic is utilitarian; plates clatter and water splashes on the floor.

Draco’s way of cleaning had been far more elegant. The teacups practically danced their way onto the shelves, and the wine glasses were always sorted properly. Harry still isn’t entirely sure which glasses are for red or white, or brandy. No matter; he finished the last bottle of brandy a week ago.

Next time he’ll do the washing by hand.

In all honesty, Harry’s not sure why he bothers with plates. Takeaway always arrives in little containers, with plastic spoons or chopsticks. Kreacher might give him the hairy eyeball when he digs into a carton of noodles while sitting on the sofa, but Kreacher is in a worse mood than usual these days. Harry knows he misses Draco, too, in his own way; no more _ yes, young Master Black _ or _ what would the young master like for dinner? _ Draco had been uncomfortable with the old elf’s obsequiousness, but Harry enjoyed it a little bit in spite of himself. Maybe because it was Kreacher’s way of welcoming Draco into the house, and Harry thought he belonged there, too.

As Harry paces the sitting room after dinner, glass of whisky firmly in hand, he takes stock of all the little pieces of Draco that still remain. A book, half-finished, lying dusty on the side table. A commendation letter from work, after he’d finessed a treaty between Britain and Spain over exchange rates. Harry had wanted to frame that, but Draco demurred. It wasn’t modesty, Harry now realised. It was just that Draco didn’t want to integrate his work life and his home life.

Didn’t want to integrate himself into Harry’s home.

Anger creeps into Harry’s melancholy mood now, the way it always does at this time of night, when he’s on his second glass. This is all Draco’s fault, the emptiness of the house and in Harry’s heart. All Harry had wanted was a partner, someone he could confide in, share his problems with, be happy with. All Draco had wanted — 

Harry isn’t sure what Draco wanted. He knows what Draco _ didn’t _ want, and three months after the door slammed behind him, it still stings. Harry is one open wound, from his head (that aches in the morning) to his feet that pace the floors, taking note of every banister and doorknob that Draco once graced with his slender fingers. Later tonight Harry will drag himself up to bed and fall onto the rumpled sheets, still dreaming that he can smell Draco on them. It’s only in his head, but it won’t stop Harry from taking himself in hand and pulling himself off to the memory of Draco inside him. 

“Fucking Malfoy,” he mutters. He doesn’t want to say Draco’s name aloud, to surrender it to the echoing hallways in a lonely cry. That seems a bit _ too _ pathetic. He might gasp it tonight as he comes, but he can’t help that.

Harry can’t help a lot of things, and no one can help him out of this hole. Hermione suggested he talk to someone and Ron suggested he go out and find someone. Both suggestions are ludicrous. Harry is still full up with Draco, he has no room for anyone else. And he doesn’t want to cry over it in a bloody therapy session. Deep down, Harry knows there are only two ways out of this. Get over Draco, or get him back. He hasn’t been successful at the former, not in the least bit. He’s still in love with the git. 

The glass is sweating in Harry’s hand as he racks his brain for the millionth time, trying to figure out where things went wrong. It slips from his fingers and shatters; shards burst across the floor. Harry decides that next time he’ll drink straight from the bottle. That’s one less dish to wash, at least.

_ Merlin, look at me, _ Harry thinks in a moment of clarity. _ Something has to change here. _

But not tonight. No, tonight Harry will continue to wallow. Per his now-usual routine, his feet slowly take the stairs to the master bedroom. Draco always paused and kissed him halfway up, pressed him into an old coat-of-arms that hadn’t been so overly tacky as to warrant its removal with many of the other Black heirlooms. Harry now rushes past this spot.

Harry had picked the colour scheme of the bedroom to brighten the place up — light yellows, vivid blues. Draco’s pale skin on the sheets had been like a blinding sunrise. Harry lies on the bed and remembers gliding his hands over every soft part of Draco, especially his thighs, before continuing with kisses. Behind the knee, behind the ear, little secret places. Gentleness that evolved to firmer touches. Harry’s fingers tug at his own hair in remembrance of Draco’s penchant for pulling it, while his other hand creeps down his chest, over nipples and through the trail of hair that rises on his stomach.

He can never draw it out, not like Draco used to. Before long he’s spitting in his palm and stroking his cock. His fantasies vary; there wasn’t a lot that he and Draco didn’t get up to. He almost never thinks of Draco’s hot mouth, though. Harry never managed to keep his eyes closed if there was a better view available, and locking eyes with Draco as he hollowed his cheeks around Harry’s prick and _ sucked _was one of the best things he’d ever seen. Dreaming about that with nothing but the ceiling looking back at him isn't worth it.

Instead Harry bends one knee upward and imagines Draco holding him open, pressing into him. He always felt cared for when Draco topped, even if it got rough, and that’s what Harry needs right now. His hand flies over his cock, up and down, with a little twist over the head. Draco had figured that one out pretty quickly, and never left Harry to fend for himself. It hits him in a rush, and he spurts over his chest, Draco’s name a raspy cry in his throat.

His orgasms are only satisfying for a fleeting moment, now; the afterglow of a climax always leads to tears, as the adrenaline crashes and he becomes aware of the stark loneliness of his empty bed. Harry rolls over, blinking wet eyes, and contemplates falling asleep sticky. But he knows now how unpleasant that feels in the morning, so he stands to fetch his wand from the dresser. 

His bleary-eyed reflection greets him. Not for the first time, Harry wonders how Draco is holding up. He hadn’t seemed happy when he left Harry reeling that day. There had been something in his eyes begging Harry to stop him, to fix this, but Harry had been too stunned, then too angry, and then too proud. Once two weeks had passed without word from Draco, reality had settled in, and Harry hadn’t known how to go about winning Draco back, if it was even possible.

But if Harry loves Draco, and _ he’s _ so torn apart, could Draco be just as broken-hearted as him? Could he be waiting for Harry to make things right? He’d said “don’t call me,” but for how long? How long does it take for love to die? Longer than three months, in Harry’s case at least. He’s held off for fear of being hurt even worse… but what’s worse than crying naked over your ex-boyfriend? The fireplace looms in Harry’s vision, and he’s tempted, but luckily hasn’t had quite enough firewhisky to go that far.

No, a Floo call is too presumptuous. Harry will write.

~~~

Even though he’d been full of hope, Harry wasn’t entirely sure Draco would respond. Would he be angry that Harry didn’t reach out sooner? Had he already moved on? So when Harry had finally received the reply two days later, he’d been a nervous wreck.

The place is one Draco suggested, and that Harry readily agreed to. It's a Muggle cafe, and the patio isn't busy between the morning rush and lunch. They’ve been here before, together and apart.

Draco is already seated with a cup — a real one, not paper takeaway. Harry takes this as a good sign. He's even more beautiful than in Harry's memories, one finger elegantly tapping the tip of the cup, one long leg crossed over the other. Fashionable Muggle sunglasses are perched on his head, and he’s wearing a low-necked t-shirt that Harry has always admired on him.

“Hello,” Harry says, trying not to gush. “I'm not late, am I?”

“No. I simply came early.” 

Harry can't decipher his voice. “Because you were eager to be here, or eager to get it over with?” Harry jokes, but it falls flat. Draco simply arches an eyebrow. 

“You said you wanted to catch up. I'd also like that.”

“Right. I'll er, I'll just get myself a coffee.”

The line at the counter is short but it feels eternal. Drink in hand, Harry sits back at the table. “So,” he begins tentatively, “how've you been?”

“Very busy.” 

“Work?”

“Mmhmm.” Draco sips delicately at his coffee, avoiding foam on his lip. Cappuccino, as always. “After Austria, I was in Brussels for nearly two months.”

“Oh. Wow.” Nearly the entire time they’ve been apart, then. “What’s in Brussels?

“A summit on trading regulations.” Draco pauses, then flatly continues without allowing Harry time to respond. “Rather boring to you, I’m sure.”

“No! No, that’s… did it go well?”

“As well as can be expected. The Eastern European countries were stubborn about checkpoints, but that’s because they know we’d catch illegal dragon bone shipments if we crack down.” Draco smiles, and adds, “Charlie Weasley and some of his colleagues actually spoke during the talks about how the regulations were necessary for their work. It was very helpful.”

“That was good of him.” Harry can’t resist the spike of jealousy that rises in his throat when he thinks about Charlie getting to spend time with Draco, when Harry’s been missing him so much. “A two-month summit, though?”

With a measured breath, Draco takes another sip of coffee, then purses his lips. “Well, I stayed on for a while after. Took some vacation time.”

“You’re certainly owed it, for as hard as you work,” Harry says kindly, but inside his mind is awash with the possibilities that Draco stayed for _ someone. _ Would he, that soon? Had he already wanted to when he walked out of Harry’s life?

Draco makes a little motion of _ cheers _ with his coffee. “I really was.” He leans back, and uncrosses his legs. Harry follows the motion as subtly as he can. “And how are you? Anything new?”

Harry shrugs. “Nah. Haven’t been any interesting cases. Pretty slow, actually.” _ Thankfully, _ he adds silently. He hasn’t been in any kind of shape for strenuous Auror work.

“How’s Weasley doing with his promotion?” 

“Wonderful.” Harry hesitates. He’s certainly happy for his best friend, but it’s not like Draco to bother. “He’s really settled into it. Bosses everyone around, but does it with a wink, you know?”

“I’m sure that doesn’t extend to his home life.” Draco’s mouth is quirked up at the edge, and it’s immensely appealing, but the direction of the conversation irritates Harry.

“You didn’t care to hear about Ron and Hermione when we were together. Avoided them, in fact.” Draco’s face immediately closes off, and Harry could kick himself. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“This is supposed to be a friendly catch-up.”

“I know.” He’s framed it that way, but of course Harry has romantic hopes about their meeting. “I just… I miss you.”

Draco sighs resignedly. “Harry. Please don’t.”

Being shut down doesn’t sit well with Harry. “Don't what? Be honest? I miss you like a part of me has been torn off. Am I supposed to ignore that?”

Abruptly, Draco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper: Harry’s letter. He holds it tightly enough to add more creases to the ones already there. Harry can still recall every little word that he agonised over.

_ ‘It's been three months, do you think we could talk now? We used to be friends, I think we still could. Aside from everything, I’d like to know how you’re doing. Did the trade deal in Austria ever work out? I think Helena misses you, I know you bought her for me but you spoiled her until she loved you best. Make sure you give her a treat with your reply.’ _

Draco brandishes the letter like it’s Exhibit A in a prosecution. “I saw this for the guilt trip it was, but somehow hoped things would be different.”

“It’s not a —”

“Perhaps not consciously. But it’s still all about _ you, _ Harry.”

“I asked how you were doing! In the letter and today!”

“But this isn’t about reconnecting our friendship. You want to get back together. And nowhere in this letter did you ask why I left.”

"I couldn’t see a reason,” Harry grumbles. 

“You didn’t try to ask then, either.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to ask! Just up and left!”

Draco laughs humourlessly. “Really? Is that what you think happened? I tried to talk to you for _ weeks. _ You were too stubborn to realise there was a problem.”

“Weeks?” Maybe Draco’s right. Maybe in all of Harry’s sorrow and righteous indignation directly after the breakup, he neglected to notice something important. “How long were you really thinking about ending things?”

Draco crosses and uncrosses his legs twice more before answering. “Honestly, with all things considered? A long time. But specifically after you asked me to move in with you.”

Harry remembers being so thrilled about the prospect of waking up to Draco every single morning, of tripping over his stupid pointy shoes at the end of the bed every night, of being _ together. _ “That’s all it took, huh? Threatening your freedom?” It’s a nasty jab, one he doesn’t wholly mean, and the sideways glare Draco slants him says that he knows exactly what Harry is doing — lashing out.

“You didn’t consider getting a place of our own, did you? Just asked me to come into Grimmauld.”

“You didn’t suggest it, either,” Harry mutters, crossing his arms in front of himself protectively.

“No, I suppose that’s fair,” Draco concedes with a nod. “But no matter. It was too fast. We’d only been seeing each other for about four months, Harry.”

“You were there all the time!” Harry argued. “And it was nearly a year.”

“Yes, as _ friends. _ Or as… companions.” Harry would have said ‘fuckbuddies,’ but leave it to Draco to find the most prudish word possible. “In any case, once we were in a relationship… it took on a new meaning.”

“I would think being friends first would be better for a relationship, not worse.”

“I needed my own space.”

“That house is massive!”

“It’s not the same!” Draco seems to realise he’s shouting now, and with a glance around the cafe patio — still empty — he sinks back into himself. “It’s not the same,” he repeats quietly. 

Harry still doesn’t understand. “Everything seemed to be going so well.”

“And if they went wrong, where would that have left me?”

“Is that what you were afraid of? You’d move in and it would ruin our relationship? That you would lose me?” Harry can work with that. If he only reassures Draco that he’ll never leave, he can — 

“No.” Draco uncharacteristically places his elbows on the table, takes his own face in his hands. “I wasn’t afraid of losing you. I was afraid of losing myself.”

Harry tries to wrap his head around that. “Did you think I wanted to… what, control you?” That’s absurd. Harry had never asked Draco to stop travelling so much for work, even when he missed him, never tried to tell him what to do. He’d simply taken the next logical step in the relationship. And who can blame him for that? “You just didn’t want to be serious,” he accuses. “You were already imagining things going pear-shaped.”

_ “I _ didn’t want to be close?” Draco seethes, tying to keep his voice down. “You never bothered to dig any deeper with me, Harry! Our friendship turned physical quickly and yes, I enjoyed being your boyfriend, but there is more to love than that. Being in love means knowing what the other person wants. The fact you even thought to suggest it…”

“How was I to know you thought it was too fast?”

“If you have to ask,” Draco makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, “that’s a problem.”

“I never made _ you _ ask how I was feeling,” Harry complains. “I was so open with you, showed you parts of me no one else sees, and I just assumed you'd do the same.”

“You didn't seem that interested.” 

The words land like a blow, and Harry reels. How can Draco be so utterly, terribly _ wrong _ about his feelings? He searches for the words to explain, but Draco is already pushing his chair back and standing up.

“I’m sorry Harry, I should go. This was a mistake.”

Stunned, Harry can only watch as Draco gathers his things. “Why’d you even come, then?” he asks in a bitter tone as Draco moves away.

Draco pauses, back still turned. “Because I missed you, too.”

~~~

Seeing Draco only makes things worse for Harry. Nowhere in their aborted conversation at the cafe were there any explanations, any _ closure. _Draco feels that Harry had been selfish, had moved too fast? Why hadn’t he said anything while they were still together? 

There are supposed to be stages of grief, and now Harry is at ‘anger.’ He’s not sure what order they come in, only that one is sadness (been there, done that, currently trying to ignore it) and that the final one is ‘acceptance'. He's a long way off from that one. For the present he’s content to seethe.

Being angry has always made Harry productive, and for two weeks he pushes himself at work, going over old cases and searching for new leads. He’d told Draco the truth; it’s been slow around the Auror department. He noses around his co-workers’ files too, seeing if they had missed anything, and hounds Ron for more assignments. Eventually everyone is irritated with his constant badgering, even his best friend, who summons him to a closed-door meeting.

“Mate, you have to take your mind off this.” Harry wilts under Ron’s disapproving stare. He’s sure the other Aurors think Harry is receiving a dressing down for being a general pain in the arse, not for taking his relationship woes out on everyone around him.

Only Ron and Hermione know the truth about his relationship with Draco, after all.

Recalling that fact only inflames Harry further. “What would you know about it?” he snaps. “You’re happy.”

Ron simply raises an eyebrow. “What would I know about being all mixed up in my head, about taking my emotions out on my friends who are only trying to help? I thought we’d grown up by now.”

“Yeah, well....” Harry slumps into the chair in front of Ron’s desk. “You’ve never been dumped by your boyfriend, how’s that.”

“Can’t say I’ve suffered that in particular, no. But everyone else is suffering your temper for it. Take a break if you need to, Harry, but stop tormenting everyone else just to give yourself something to do.”

“I don’t want to take a break. I just…” Harry watches a photo on Ron’s desk, the one of he and Hermione on their wedding day. They twirl for the camera, beaming out from the frame in absolute joy. “It’s hard to get over, you know? I had hopes.”

Ron leans forward over his desk, and Harry can see him switch gears out of Head Auror mode. “It kills me to see you hurting like this. I should tell that prick —”

“No.” Harry cuts him off. “I know you weren’t fond of us seeing each other, but don’t go after him.” As upset as he is with Draco, it’s still between him and Harry.

“You know I supported you,” Ron frowns. “I was surprised when you two started getting friendly, yeah, but when you told me it had gone past that, I figured I’d better get used to him, make an effort to be nice. But _ then _ you told me not to say anything, because he doesn’t want it public yet, and I had a bad feeling.”

“He was right, thought, wasn’t he?” Harry can’t meet Ron’s eyes. “Said he didn’t want to make a fuss or be in the papers, because it was new, and might not work out.”

“It wasn’t new, it was a year.”

Harry remembers Draco’s words at the cafe about the speed of the relationship. It had felt like forever to Harry. But now that he’s been looking back over the whole thing obsessively, it occurs to him that their first date — an actual romantic one, not them meeting for drinks after work and apparating to one or the other’s bedroom for sex — _ had _ only been about four months before Harry asked Draco to move in with him. They’d been sleeping together casually for almost six months by then. It doesn’t make Harry feel any better that Draco is right about the timing.

“Why did he lead me on?” Harry wonders aloud. “He stayed over all the time. We talked every day that he didn’t. It seemed perfect.” He’s aware of how maudlin he sounds, but can’t help it.

“Look,” Ron offers. “If you don’t want to take time off work, at least do something fun. Hermione has tickets to some art opening in Diagon this weekend. She bought them because it’s for charity, but it’s not my scene. You’d be saving my hide if you went with her instead.”

Harry dithers. “I dunno. Why would I have fun at something like that?”

“Because you’re single,” Ron says bluntly. “Only two types of people go to those things - people who like to talk, and people looking to pull.”

“Guess we know which one Hermione is,” Harry jokes weakly. Ron glares, and Harry relents. “Fine, fine. I’ll try to take my mind off things. I’m not going to _ pull, _ though. I probably won’t last an hour.”

~~~

In fact, Harry lasts an hour and fifteen minutes.

He shows up with Hermione, stays by her side for a while, then drifts to the corner of the room when she spots a work colleague and gets so far into the minutiae of a current project that Harry can feel his eyes cross. He snags some canapes, then champagne, then more canapes and more champagne, politely compliments the artist on his work (although it rather looks like random blobs of colour) before he heads to the veranda with a third glass of champagne. Harry’s no lightweight, so three glasses of bubbly have only taken off a bit of his edge. He casts a _ Tempus _ and figures he can get out of here soon without being rude.

On his journey back to the table of little finger foods, he spots him. Draco always did know how to make an entrance.

Three feet into the doorway and he’s already making conversation with two people while seamlessly handing off his cloak to an attendant. Draco’s robes are sleek and black, modern while staying traditional, and he looks stunning. Harry swallows the lump in his throat as he gazes across the room. He’d tried to get Draco to do things like this together, but he would only go out in groups. The reasoning was sound, Harry had told himself at the time — why make a fuss in the papers when their relationship was still new? Now Harry is simply second-guessing every moment, and can’t help but wonder if Draco was stringing him along the whole time.

One of the people near the door is a woman, brunette and rather attractive. She’s laughing now, her hand lightly touching Draco’s arm. Harry grits his teeth and tries to look away, but he can’t. Draco’s smile is blinding as he turns it toward the woman, and Harry is overcome with envy. _ He _ used to make Draco smile like that.

It’s a heart-wrenching sensation, and he finds the need to be anywhere else. The front door isn’t an option, being currently occupied by The Ex, so Harry goes back to the veranda, snackless.

Luckily everyone else seems to have drifted back inside, so Harry settles against a balustrade, alone. If he waits just a bit, he’ll be able to go out the front — 

“Harry?”

That voice. Harry closes his eyes against the memories, and turns around slowly. 

“Hello, Draco.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Draco looks back hesitantly into the crowded room. “Did you… are you here with someone?”

“I came with Hermione.” _ Who will be so disappointed if I make a scene, so please just go away. _

Something like relief flutters across Draco’s face. “Ah. I’d wondered.” Part of Harry revels in the evident jealousy, but another part is irritated. _ He doesn’t want me, so why should he care? _ His hands clench, and Draco takes a small step back, adding, “We’ll just… give each other space, then.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly up. “You’re the one who followed me out here. I was going to leave.”

“Right.” Draco looks a bit perplexed at his own actions. “I’ll… go back inside.”

“No, wait.” Harry curses himself. He doesn’t have anything more to say to Draco, at least nothing that won’t end in an argument or begging, but he just can’t help it. Seeing Draco walk away from him again will only dig the knife in deeper. “I mean, you came outside, you must have wanted something.”

Draco scoffs, shaking his head. “I couldn’t help myself, I suppose.” He approaches, his gait casual yet forced, and leans over the balustrade beside Harry. “Things didn’t end on a high note when we last saw each other. Perhaps I thought we could try at being friends again.”

Harry’s supposed to be getting over Draco, not rowing with him. “I don’t know if we can be friends,” he says bluntly. “I’m still in love with you. You don’t want me to try to win you back, so I’m not sure what else we have to say to each other.”

“Do you think we’ll _ ever _ be friends again?” Draco asks sadly.

“Honestly? I don’t know if we ever were ‘just friends’. 

Draco starts, and he stares at Harry in shock. Harry continues, the truth burning on his tongue. “Most of the time we were becoming friends, we were casually fucking, too. I realised I was attracted to you as soon as we started talking again, and I think that’s what helped me get over our history.”

“You’re saying you forgave me because you had a _ crush _ on me?” Draco hisses.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I’m saying I started hanging around with you, meeting up for drinks, because I was drawn to you.” Harry pushes back from the railing and turns toward the door, where light and chatter spill out into the night. “And I still am. I was jealous, you know, when I saw you talking to that woman at the door. She touched you and it hurt me.” He shakes his head, and adds, “I know that’s stupid.”

“Of course its stupid,” Draco says tightly. “I’m not yours anymore.”

“I’m aware,” Harry bites out. “Although I meant because she's a woman.” There’s a silence, and Harry looks back to see Draco staring in disbelief. “What?”

“I _ am _ bisexual, Potter.” Harry’s mouth drops open, and Draco laughs bitterly. “I don't know why I'm surprised. Of course you never bothered to ask. I was with _ you _ and that was all that mattered to you. You never cared learning more about me.”

They'd been together for months and it never came up. How had it never come up? “But you… I’ve never seen you with a girlfriend,” Harry protests weakly.

“Never saw me with a boyfriend either, not before you. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well, you never told me!” Draco’s lips thin into a hard line, and Harry remembers what he said at the cafe. _ If you have to ask, that’s a problem. _

“I didn’t do anything right, did I?” Harry mutters petulantly, his shoulders hunching. “I was _ such _ a terrible boyfriend.”

“Once again, it’s all about you,” Draco sneers.

“You weren’t perfect yourself, you know?” Harry knows he’s making things worse, but he can’t contain his words. “You acted ashamed of me, of us. You were perfectly happy to sleep with me, but never be seen with me.”

“I wasn’t ashamed, I was cautious —”

“You were leading me on!” Harry points at Draco accusingly. “I wanted to give you everything.”

“And in return, you asked everything of me.” Draco’s chin is tipped up proudly, but there’s a tremble in his voice. It’s rare for him to show such vulnerability, and if Harry is smart, he’ll take this opening to try and soothe Draco’s bruised feelings, tell him things can be better if they’d only _ try. _

“Apparently I never asked you anything,” he throws back instead.

Harry wants to grab himself by the shoulders and shake, yell _ what are you doing, you idiot!? _ Draco’s face closes off, his jaw clenching, and he turns for the door. Merlin, Harry’s really put his foot in it this time. Draco had approached him, been friendly, there’d been a chance — 

“Wait!” 

Harry reaches out and grabs Draco’s wrist. He expects to be shrugged off, or pushed away, and honestly, he deserves to be; it’s Draco’s decision if he wants to leave. But instead, Draco whirls around and allows himself to be pulled in, much closer than Harry expected, continuing with their momentum until he’s backed Harry up against the railing.

“You think you can have everything you want, don’t you, Potter?” His breath smells like champagne — he must have downed a glass on the way out here — and Harry’s gaze darts down to his lips, then back to his eyes, glittering with barely concealed anger and lust.

“Not everything,” Harry murmurs. “I don’t have you.”

“And you still want me, don’t you?” Draco asks, the word _ want _ dripping with barely concealed innuendo. Harry wants to argue that it isn’t like that, isn’t just physical, that he loves Draco, but his body is leaning into the press of Draco’s own, his lips tilting up towards that beautiful mouth.

“Yes,” he breathes, and suddenly Draco is kissing him.

There’s something Harry is missing here; Draco said he wanted to be friends, not fuck again. Still, he surrenders desperately to the kiss, knowing that he’ll take any part of Draco he can get. He grips Draco’s waist, and Draco's hands clutch at Harry's arms. Harry feels the tension in him, knows he's torn between pushing Harry away or clinging on for dear life. Harry makes a case for the latter, running his lips down Draco’s jaw and nipping at the spot just below the ear, exactly how Draco likes it. A whine escapes Draco’s throat as Harry sucks the skin there, hoping to leave a mark. 

A shadow passes by the door to the veranda, and Harry becomes acutely aware of how exposed they are. He doesn’t care, but knows that Draco likely does. He pulls back, noting with pleasure the dark, purpling bruise, and kisses Draco again. “Let’s leave,” he pants against Draco’s mouth. Draco goes still, and Harry curls into him, waiting. This has to be Draco’s decision; Harry won’t press any further than he has for fear of scaring him off.

With a _ crack, _ they disappear.

~~~

Harry stumbles as they appear in Draco’s bedroom. It’s his Diagon flat, of course, not the Manor, which Harry hasn’t set foot in since the war. He knows the flat well, even if they mostly stuck to Grimmauld. He immediately begins to manoeuvre them towards the bed; he doesn’t know how much time they have before Draco comes to his senses, and he wants to make the most of it.

Maybe seeing how good they are together will be enough to change Draco’s mind.

Harry pulls them both down — gently, without force — to the soft grey sheets that Draco favours, never breaking the kiss. He insinuates his hands under Draco’s robes and settles them on slim, narrow hips he thought he’d never feel again. Draco doesn’t yet attempt to remove any of his own or Harry’s clothing, but he keeps the kiss intense, and allows his weight to settle on Harry. It’s a possessive move, and it stokes Harry's desire higher. He presses his fingers into Draco’s hipbones, hard, and begins to inch them under the waistband of his pants. 

Draco answers this with a growl and pulls at the collar of Harry’s shirt, popping two buttons in his haste. Harry allows one hand (and one hand only) to abandon its journey downward and tugs at the shirt himself. Once it's open, Draco wastes no time biting at Harry’s collarbones, drawing a sharp gasp from Harry. He soothes the reddened skin with his tongue, then moves back upwards, resting his forehead against Harry’s own.

“What the _ fuck _ am I doing?” Draco moans. Harry takes it as a rhetorical question and doesn’t answer, desperately pressing his mouth to Draco’s once more. He quickly returns both hands to kneading Draco’s arse and hopes he leaves finger-sized bruises.

They’ve begun frotting against one another mindlessly, and Draco finally breaks the kiss to fumble with Harry’s belt, obviously giving up any argument he was having with himself about continuing. He makes a low, pleased sound when Harry’s cock springs free, and immediately strokes it, causing Harry to buck upwards.

_ He missed me, he had to have missed me. Just look how much he wants me. _

Draco licks his lips as he watches Harry’s cockhead peek out from his fist with every stroke. Harry knows what comes next: Draco has an intense oral fixation. As much as he wants to feel a warm wet mouth surrounding him, he also knows how fast he will come if that happens. It’s been too long. Harry is also acutely aware how tenuous this encounter is, and that it may never happen again.

If this is the last time they fuck, Harry wants everything.

“Don’t wanna come that way,” he manages to grind out as Draco tightens his grip. 

“Oh? How, then?” Draco manages to tear himself away from hungrily staring at Harry’s prick for a moment, and catches on to his meaning. “Right. Who’s...?”

“I don’t care,” Harry pants. Part of him wants to throw Draco down and take out all of his tangled emotions, all the pain and anger, but most of all he just wants to touch, to be held, to be loved. Wordlessly, Harry spreads his legs and arches his back. He knows how much Draco likes that, likes watching his surrender.

“Merlin, Harry,” Draco groans, settling between Harry’s legs. “You kill me. How can I… after all this…” Whatever he’s trying to say is lost as he moves down and yanks Harry’s trousers off the rest of the way, getting caught up on his shoes. “Bloody Muggle kit,” Draco scowls, as if he doesn’t often wear suits himself. Finally he succeeds, throwing Harry’s shoes aside, and starts on his own clothing.

Draco’s current fashionable robes are the type that button all the way from floor to collar; Harry’s managed to undo the ones at his waist to gain access to his luscious arse, but the rest remain. He tries to sit up and help, but Draco pushes him back down and pulls his own wand in one fluid motion, casting a quick spell at the buttons that has them flying open. Draco then immediately takes his cock in hand, without removing the robes from his arms. 

There’s only silence as Draco leans back, just watching Harry, who is worried by the pause in action. What if Draco has changed his mind? Neglecting his own achingly hard cock, Harry sucks two fingers into his mouth and reaches behind his legs, intent on preparing himself quickly. Draco’s eyes go wide at the sight, and he fumbles for his wand again.

“Charm alright?” he whispers hesitantly, and Harry gets the impression that Draco doesn’t want to break the strange detente they’ve suddenly reached with too many words. He nods and spreads his legs a little further, then shivers as the familiar magic of Draco’s lubrication spell coats his cock and slicks his hole.

As Draco leans closer and begins pressing in, Harry shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to give away just how bewildered he feels. Draco is back in his arms, and Harry’s wished for this so desperately, but deep down he knows this won’t fix anything between them. If anything, it might make things worse. But Draco smells so good, and the slight burn of being filled is so intensely pleasurable, there’s absolutely no question of stopping.

There will be time enough for regrets in the morning. Right now, Harry just wants to _ feel. _

Their bodies still fit together like pieces of a puzzle, eager and easy. Harry wraps his legs around Draco’s waist and tightens them; Draco quickly takes the hint and deepens his strokes. Foreplay aside, Harry was never very patient, preferring to be fucked fast and hard. And maybe Draco missed him, or maybe it’s the tension from their unfinished argument, but Draco seems all too happy to give Harry exactly what he wants tonight. If anything, he’s rougher than ever.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry chants, the word both an exclamation and a plea. It’s like every breath is being pounded out of him. He isn’t going to last: Draco is just too good, knows his body too well, and it’s been ages. _ Does he know? _ Harry wonders, even as he becomes incoherent. _ Does he know I haven’t been with anyone since him? _ The swiftness of his approaching orgasm will be a dead giveaway, if nothing else. Harry finally slips his hand between them and fists his own cock. Part of him wants to hold off, to drag out the amazing sensation of Draco around him, inside of him, but months of wanking to this very fantasy catch up to him, and Harry starts to come. Draco’s thrusts slow to a stop, and he watches Harry, a bit dazed, a bit in awe of just how fast he finished. 

“You’re so beautiful when you come, Potter,” he whispers, and Harry blushes, his cock releasing one last pulse. 

“Um, you didn’t…” Harry wiggles for emphasis, bearing down just a bit — not too hard, he’s feeling very sensitive there — and Draco moans before pulling out. He moves a little too quickly, and Harry bites back a gasp. Draco kneels back, in the same position as before he entered Harry, and pulls his hand over his cock in short, rapid strokes until he’s pulsing come over Harry’s stomach and thighs. 

He bows his head as he catches his breath, and Harry can’t help but reach up and tangle his fingers in Draco’s hair, dark with sweat. Draco doesn’t bat his hand away, but after a moment he rolls to the side, still tangled in his robes, his body hot and sticky against Harry’s.

Neither of them say a word.

~~~

At some point they must have dozed off, Harry realizes when he wakes to the sun just peeking through the curtains.. To his surprise, Draco is still there, the soft morning light casting shadows on his sleeping face. For a while, Harry watches him. He knows whatever conversation they have when Draco wakes up won’t be easy.

Maybe it’s the catharsis of last night, but Harry finds himself thinking more clearly about his and Draco’s relationship than he has at any time these past few months. When he sets aside his own injured feelings, he’s able to turn Draco’s words at the cafe over in his mind again._ “I wasn’t afraid of losing you. I was afraid of losing myself.” _Harry wonders if he can get to the root of that, if it’s the secret to getting Draco back. Because all arguments aside, he does want him back.

Taking in every detail one last time — the silky, mussed-up hair, the long lashes, the lines at the corner of his mouth that Draco swears aren’t there — Harry slips out of bed and heads downstairs to make tea.

Around a half hour later, Draco wordlessly joins him at the table. Harry has left an empty mug for him, and he prepares his tea just as Harry remembers. As he carefully stirs in the third spoonful of sugar, Harry can’t help but smile. 

“I always found it charming, how fussy you are with your tea.” 

Draco takes the first sip, then licks his bottom lip where a few crystals of sugar had gathered. “I never knew,” he murmurs, then glances up. “Do you still set yours down and forget it until it’s cold?’

“Yes,” Harry laughs. “There’s just so much to do in the morning!”

“I always said you should start your day earlier, give yourself more time.”

“Says the man who slept longer than me today.” Draco takes another pensive sip of tea, and Harry takes the first tentative step in the real discussion at hand. “I missed that, by the way. Waking up next to you.”

Nodding, Draco sets his mug down. “I… I did, too.” He falters, then places both hands on the table and continues. “I’m sorry about last night, at the art show.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Harry answers. “But not about everything. I’m sorry we argued first, and that we didn't, well, communicate. I know that’s important to you. But I’m not sorry about being together.” 

“I’m not sure it was the best idea.” Draco is speaking softly, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “Last night, you accused me of leading you on. I wasn’t, not back then, and I don’t want you to feel as if I am now. It wasn’t my intention to… to dangle myself in front of you and then pull away.”

“Then don’t pull away,” Harry pleads. 

Draco slumps in his seat. “Harry, we’ve been over this.”

“No, we haven’t. Not really. We didn’t talk properly, and then we fought. None of that was a real discussion.” Draco looks sceptical, but Harry presses on. “You said you hoped to continue our friendship. Did you mean that?” It’s not all Harry wants, but he has to start somewhere.

“I thought _ you _ said we were never just friends.”

“I was upset. And it’s true, I was attracted to you from the beginning. But if you hadn’t returned that interest, we could have been just friends. I think with enough time now, we still could.”

“Okay. That’s— that’s good to know.” There’s a sad finality to Draco’s words, and Harry puts a hand up.

“I’m not finished. Last night, we rushed things, but I think it means something.”

“It means we were lonely, Harry.” 

“I mean, yeah, I’ve been lonely. But there hasn’t been anyone but you.” Draco goes a bit pink, and Harry knows he is remembering their encounter last night. “I didn’t want anyone else.”

He doesn’t ask the burning question in his mind, but Draco answers anyway. “There hasn’t been anyone else for me, either.” There’s an edge of despair in his voice, and Harry believes him.

“So, we’re friends. Who are attracted to each other. Who don’t seem to want anyone else.” Harry laughs, and throws his arms up. “Am I just being dense?”

“That just takes us back to friends with benefits,” Draco protests. “Is that really what you want?”

“No, I want you to be my boyfriend again. But we went into that all wrong, before. It looks to me like we have a second chance.”

“What makes you think it would work this time?” Draco asks wearily, but he doesn’t say _ no, _ which Harry takes as a sign to continue. He rises to his feet, paces a few times while gathering his courage, and leans on the counter.

“Do you love me?” Harry asks seriously. “Did you ever love me?” 

“_Yes,_” Draco says firmly, but he doesn’t say which question he is answering, the former or the latter.

“I’ll ask again. Please. Do you _ still _ love me?” Harry knows his eyes are pleading, but he refuses to sound like he’s begging.

Draco pushes his mug toward the centre of the table and drops his head into his hands. After several tense moments, he looks back up, anguish writ across his face.

“I don’t think…” he begins, before shaking his head and starting over. “When I left you, I was angry that you hadn’t noticed I had been unhappy.”

“I’m sorry for that.” Harry means it; he’s had time this morning to think about what both of them could do better. “I was so excited about taking the next step with you, I must have got caught up in my own feelings.”

“It hurt. But you’re right, I should have said something as well. I expected you to know intuitively what was wrong. I thought if I had to tell you, then you didn't really care.” 

“I'm not a Legilimens,” Harry says gently.

“Nor would I want you to be.” Draco shudders. “I simply… I find it difficult to open up without prompting. It’s important that my partner can instinctively sense when I need to talk.”

“I can check in with you. But you can’t let things fester.”

“You’re already talking about this like it’s been decided.” Draco sounds doubtful, but again, he doesn’t say _ no, _ which Harry takes as a good sign. “You really want to try again? Even if it means more heartbreak in the end?”

“I really want to,” Harry implores. “I think our relationship is worth it, that _ we _ are worth it. But we can’t drag our old baggage along.” He sits back down again, directly across from Draco. “So now that we’re here, let me ask. I didn’t notice you were unhappy. But what were you unhappy about?”

“It wasn’t a specific incident,” Draco answers. “It was more a feeling. Like…” He huffs in frustration. “Trapped isn’t the right word. Maybe cornered?” It takes all of Harry’s control not to respond that he hadn’t trapped Draco — if that's how he feels, then Harry needs to listen. Draco does, in fact, tense, as if bracing for a rebuttal, but Harry only nods for him to continue.

Draco speaks slowly, as if choosing his phrasing carefully. “I worked so hard to become my own man. Out of my father's shadow, my mother’s meddling, I’ve made something of myself. As things progressed, I felt like I was being subsumed into your life, and when I pushed back you didn't even notice.” His posture gradually loosens, but his words still sting. “When you asked me to move in, everything I’d been subconsciously feeling about the relationship came rushing up at me. Being folded neatly into your life, into your house, it was like what I had built didn’t matter.”

Harry frowns, grieved that he ever made Draco feel less than he is, even inadvertently. “I’m so proud of you,” he finally says. Draco looks startled, and Harry feels ashamed. “Did I never tell you that? I am _ so _proud.”

“You did, actually. I just didn’t hear it. I was too busy worrying about what would happen when everyone else knew. You know I don’t buy into your hero-worship,” and Draco waves his hand dismissively, “but you’re important, you’re Harry Potter, with all that entails. I didn’t want to be ‘Harry Potter’s boyfriend.’ I wanted to be Draco Malfoy.”

“I’m not sure anyone could forget who you are,” Harry smiles wryly. “You’d never let them.”

“Well, that’s how I felt, regardless of logic. And when I pulled back, you blithely continued on, which just proved my point to myself that I didn’t really matter. I know, I know,” Draco cuts off the protest on the tip of Harry’s tongue. “You love me, and I matter to you. You’re just not particularly perceptive. We’ve covered this. And I’m ready to admit I was hasty when I left without communicating.”

This is going better than Harry could have hoped. “If that’s the main problem of our relationship, communication, don’t you think that’s fixable?”

“It’s not as easy as just saying ‘let’s talk.’ But…” Harry leans forward, hope sparking in his heart, and Draco smiles softly. “Yes. I suppose that’s fixable.”

Only one question remains for Harry, and the answer could break him. “So I’ll ask again. Do you still love me?”

Draco answers, almost in a whisper. “Yes.” The word catches in his throat, and he speaks again, clearly this time.

“Yes.”

~~~

_ Three Months Later _

Tonight’s benefit for the current cause de jour is in a much bigger venue. Harry had felt so badly about disappearing on Hermione at the last one that he’s made a sizable donation in order to get four tickets. Hermione was grateful; Ron not so much. His opinion changed as soon as he saw the large table of hors d’oeuvres. 

Harry is listening to a very amusing story from the new head of Quidditch Regulations, about her daughter’s obsession with Wheezes products, when he feels a hand on his arm. “More champagne?” Draco offers, and Harry accepts with a smile. 

“Gilda, have you met my boyfriend?” 

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure. Gilda Rathcourt, Games and Sports.” She holds out her hand, and Draco shakes it.

“Draco Malfoy, International Affairs. Might I borrow Harry for a moment?”

“By all means. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” It’s a perfectly pleasant exchange, and although Harry notices her eyes follow them both, it’s mere curiosity. And who could blame her — the papers had indeed had their day when the two of them first went out in public as a couple a few weeks ago. 

By then, however, Harry and Draco had built their foundation back up. Long talks late into the night have served them well; Harry is amazed his voice didn’t give out. If communication is what Draco wants, he’s got it in spades now, and Harry is amazed at how much closer they are, how vibrant their relationship feels compared to their first abortive attempt. 

“Thank you,” Draco whispers fervently as they wind their way back through the crowd. “Franz Huber is here, and I’m trying to avoid him.”

“The Austrian potioneer? What’s your problem with him?”

Draco flushes. “He keeps looking at… well. My arse.”

Harry stifles a laugh. “Your robes are tight. I’m looking, too. Everyone is looking, if they have any taste.”

“He’s three times my age and handsy.”

“You’re using me as a shield!” Harry raises a hand in mock affront. “You think he’ll be afraid of the great Harry Potter.”

“Oh, do get over yourself. No one should fear you, you can barely tie your shoes.” Draco rolls his eyes and snatches another vol-au-vent from a passing waiter. “He won’t approach you because he doesn’t speak English, and you speak nothing but. Therefore, it would be rude to converse with me in front of you.”

“Ah. Some etiquette thing. Are you going to stay glued to my side the rest of the night?” Harry won’t argue. Draco isn’t usually affectionate in public, so it’s a nice treat to navigate the room arm in arm.

“Much as I’d love to, I have an early morning. I leave for Madrid tomorrow, remember? It’s a Saturday Portkey.” Harry does remember, and although he will miss Draco for the week, he also meant it when he said how proud he was of the career Draco has built for himself.

“Let me get my coat.”

“No, you stay. I can tell you’re enjoying yourself for once.” Draco pauses, then adds almost shyly, “I’d love to kiss you goodbye in the morning, though.” 

“I’d like that, too,” Harry grins. “Go home and pack, and leave your wards open for me.” 

Harry walks Draco safely to the door, free of any grabby octogenarians, and they part with an embrace. The lure of puff pastry draws Harry back to the snacks table, where Hermione is now standing with Ron.

“Draco leave?” Harry nods, and Ron frowns. “You guys didn’t have a fight, did you?”

“Not at all, he’s just busy tomorrow. We don’t have to be joined at the hip.”

“Good, because I don’t want to see you in such a sorry state ever again. Gave the department nightmares.” Ron shudders. “I only hope everything works out this time.”

“Me too, mate.”

“You don’t need to hope, Harry,” Hermione chimes in. “Love is a choice. You work at it, and decide to keep working at it. There is something ineffable about it, of course,” and she glances over at Ron with a smile, “but things don’t just fall into place with no effort.”

“Cheers to that.” All three of them raise their glasses.

Harry will see Draco when he crawls into bed tonight, stuffed with too many canapes and too tired for anything but a cuddle. He’ll kiss Draco goodbye in the morning, before going back to sleep, and when he wakes he’ll Floo back to his own home and work in his garden, or listen to the Wireless. Someday when Draco is ready, they can talk about moving in together, but it will be a real conversation. It’s true — love is work. 

But love is worth it.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [H/D Tropes Exchange Fest 2019,](http://www.hdtropes.tumblr.com) posting August & September 2019!  
Leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it!


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